Frank Praeger

Antique or Junk

Stymied,
too many misgivings
about misplaced plate settings,
mouse droppings,
tarantulas as house varmints.
Days frittered away in back exercises, icings,
taxed by the simplest matter.
A ticket taker asks for more than I have,
refused admittance,
dressed down for indifference,
and, then, a waitress turns her back,
a trucker does not slow.

Antique or junk?
Who argues,
who guarantees?

My name on officious papers,
drawers full of disallowed requests,
insufficient data.
The personal tricked, picked to pieces.

Frank Praeger © 2012